The Creation of Heartbreak
by 4ever-write
Summary: Of the characters in Les Miserables, I've always found this one harder to relate to than most of the others. I've wondered: what made him so twisted? Well, here's his backstory. Wondering who I'm talking about? You'll just have to read it. ;) Please review and tell me if I should finish it. Thanks!


September 23, 1788

A silent woman stood on a dank street corner in Toulon, France, wearing a dark cloak as she attempted to blend into one of the numerous shadows. Not that this was unusual; the quality of the street, not the woman. In this city at this time all street corners were dank and fraught with disease. This was one of the nicer corners, though still rather filthy. It had just rained, so there were mud puddles everywhere; however, the retched smells of death and smoke from chimneys and other fires as factories churned and citizens attempted to find warmth were significantly less repulsively obvious; be that as it may, the streets were not particularly clean or safe that night no matter how nice the scent of the town was compared to the norm.

Two blocks away, outside the house of a quite wealthy-though only in earthly possessions-police inspector, Monsieur Bertrand, stood a young apprentice to the inspector. He was going out for a walk, but first he paused for a moment, taking in the freshest air he'd breathed in a while. The young man smiled to himself slightly; he old enough to understand enough about the world to avoid being swept up in a plot of deception riding on his naivety, but still young enough to keep a clear head when presented with the possibility of happiness, for he had not yet been alive long enough for the world to harden him. Bitterness, which had become the most common emotion in France that year, eluded him. The man-or really, the boy, for he was lacking a certain maturity and, as if he needed another reason to prove his youth, he was still coming into his adult frame despite the fact that nearly every other boy his age in the country had the brawn of a man, or would had his muscles not been stunted by pestilence or famine-was still holding onto a perhaps generous touch of optimism about his world.

In hopes of remaining in the discussion of this post-adolescent rather than the general population of the era, I must inform you of some more distinct character traits he could be accurately described with. His name, Nicolas, is one somewhat important matter that will be useful in regards to identifying him in the future. In today's world, the boy most likely would have been diagnosed with some form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or possibly a mild variation of Aspergers; he was not the best at communication skills, and, most importantly, he needed to have components in his life set a certain way and would become very disgruntled if the details were altered from the way he most liked them. Nicolas had a look that had always appealed to the girls around him, although at this stage in his life they would admire his features more as they might an affectionate puppy, or perhaps a small child toddling down the street after his older brother as he desperately tried to join the big boy's fun and mischief.

Before the story of Nicolas, who stood there enjoying the night, can continue, the tales of the aforementioned young woman on the street corner must be told. She was waiting alone in the dark for her sister, Christine Thenadier, would meet her as she did everyday. Christine was not quite right in the head, but her beauty was beyond compare and certainly made up for any mental dilemmas where men were concerned. Christine's husband was the firstborn of a very wealthy man. His youngest brother, the only boy in the family who had not died of smallpox as a child, was currently attempting to ascertain permission from his father to spend his entire inheritance on creating an upper-working class life for himself; he hoped to spend the small fortune on a wedding to the girl he had met only a few months before but was convinced was the lady of his dreams, and then finish the money with the purchase of a nice little inn that was not horribly far from his family. Christine's only sister hoped that if the deal fell through that there might be a chance for the girl to have nicer sleeping arrangements that the abandoned house whose roof she currently resided under when she needed some shuteye.

The woman on the street corner shivered and clutched her rags around her as a breeze as sharp as knives blew down the road. Winter would be coming soon, another cold and unforgiving season with little sustenance and no chance to get warm again until the snow began to melt. She was lucky that Christine visited with bundles of food so often, but there were some nights when the older woman simply could not escape the watchful gaze of her husband long enough to keep her promise. The lady was jerked out of her solemn thoughts instantly as a harsh reality reached her ears. Suddenly, a pair of angry voices matched with hurried footsteps, one set marching cruelly forward and the other stumbling along after, following reluctantly.

"Where is she?" snarled the low voice of M. Thenadier, Christine's husband. The man's sister-in-law turned her head to see the married couple, husband dragging wife roughly by the arm, down the road that was empty of all but the remaining desperate beggars who would not be bothered by the plights of the rich.

"W-who, Aimé?" whimpered Christine. The poor girl, her sister noticed, seemed ready to go into one of her fits at any moment.

Aimé Thenadier replied to his wife in a deep snarl, "You know very well. That slut sister of yours you've been feeding with my hard-earned food!"

With that the man threw Christine roughly down to the pavement. She cried out in pain as she hit the ground, and then, to her sister's horror, she snapped. The girl let out the cry of a wounded animal and attacked her husband. They engaged in combat, but before the woman's own flesh and blood could gather her wits enough to shout at them to stop fighting, a man was already sprinting down the road. He was a wealthy and esteemed businessman who had closed up his shop late after dealing with some problems among his workers and was only now hurrying home, and he had heard the angry words but seen only a darkly dressed woman lunge at the man, so he now was running off to find the police inspector who lived nearest to the scene of the fight, Monsieur Bertrand.

The man eventually burst past Nicolas and ran through the gate of the house looming behind the boy, who naturally followed in hopes of seeing something exciting happen for once in his life; this sort of thing never actually happened when Nicolas was watching, and he was determined to see it through this time. It was not everyday that his boring apprenticeship took an unexpected turn such as tonight's. Upon arrival at the entrance to the house, the business owner began to pound on the door until, only seconds later, the ever-punctual Jules Arceneau, Nicolas's fellow apprentice and best friend, answered the door.

"I must see Inspector Bertrand!" huffed the visitor urgently.

"Wait one moment, please," politely replied the bewildered Jules. In a surprisingly short amount of time the policeman was standing in the doorway, still dressed in his daytime clothing. He raised an eyebrow, allowing the man to proceed.

"Sir, I was in the . . . in the square!" the businessman puffed, winded from his mad dash to find the inspector. "I was walking home from the shop late tonight and . . . and I came across a beggar attacking the respectable Monsieur Thenadier!"

The inspector nodded to show that the business owner had done the right thing in coming to the house that night. "Show me the way."

The businessman, followed by the police official, followed by his two apprentices, quickly made their way to the fight scene. However, the lover's quarrel had long since finished. Christine, once she had snapped out of her fit, had collapsed into Aimé's arm in tears as she begged for forgiveness. Aimé, being the man he was, forgave her, knowing that in her debt of gratitude she would be forced to cancel all future rendezvous with her poverty-ridden sister. This would solve all his problems, really, and thus would calm his rage. His wife's sister, who had not yet stepped out of the shadows in her shock at the scene unfolding before her, knew these things, and she despaired. Starvation would now surely follow her as it would become her shadow.

Now the quartet of men trying to set right the reported wrong were coming down the street, and they saw both the embracing couple and the woman crouching in the darker corner of the row of buildings. They heard Christine's sobs, and instinctively each of the four was sure that her sister was the culprit. The businessman, though he had some doubts, pointed to the woman in the shadows.

"There, Inspector!" he cried. "That is the wretch who attacked this fine man!"

"Sir," replied Monsieur Bertrand, looking toward the man and woman hugging as they comforted each other, "is what this man says true?"

"I beg your pardon, Inspector?" asked Christine's husband. He was oblivious to the situation at the moment, but he would soon catch up and find his decision quite easy.

"Monsieur Thenadier, did this destitute female crouching here violently accost you just mere minutes ago?"

Nicolas and Jules immediately stepped to her sides and each grasped an arm firmly in a manner that said the two apprentices were competent enough to take charge of the situation with efficiency. Christine's sister, flinching under their iron grips, knew what her brother-in-law's answer would be, and she was forcing herself to come to accept this fact as he hesitated for the briefest second to gather his thoughts. After all, the woman cared more about her sister than herself, so it would not be as hard to come to terms with this fate as other ends to her story.

"Yes," Aimé answered, quickly spinning a tale out of thin air to deceive the officials. "My wife and I were hoping for a moment alone, away from the preparations being made by the housekeeping staff for our relatives who will be visiting later in the week, so we decided to take a short walk out in the beautiful night. Then, out of nowhere, this fiend came up and nearly ripped off my shirt trying to get some money out of my pocket! Luckily, I had left it all at home. And you saw, even after she was through with us, she did not have the decency to leave us in peace, for she was still lurking in the shadows, watching us without our knowledge!"

Jules was the first to pipe up an answer to this accusation. "Sir, if you give a full report, we will lock this criminal away in the deep reaches of prison and guarantee that she never again sees the light of day!"

Aimé, not really wanting such a fate to come to his wife's sister, no matter how much he disliked her, instead replied with a slight wave of the hand, "No. I do not trust the judicial system these days. Judges and juries are far too easily swayed in the favor of a weeping guilty party. I trust you, Inspector Bertrand, and your well-trained assistants to be sure that this felon will get what she deserves."

The two groups bade each other farewell. The businessman left to return home in peace and the husband and wife began to walk home; Christine was still in a bit of a confused state from her unbridled attack, so she did nothing to protest her sister's arrest. Speaking of whom, the woman and her escorts were alone on the street. She had resigned herself to the many atrocities she was expecting and was slumped in the grips of the young men in training. The two apprentices were looking at their teacher expectantly, knowing that they should take the woman they were holding to the local prison but also understanding that without an official report the process of convicting her would soon become a long and tedious affair, and hardly worth the effort.

At least, this train of thought was quite predominating in Jules's mind. Nicolas, on the other hand, was only thinking such things on the surface. Within the deep recesses of his mind, he was quite aggravated by the way this arrest had gone. The last sentence said by Monsieur Thenadier troubled him greatly. Judges swayed by teary convicts? Why, the very thought was simply outrageous! How dare the man say such a thing about the honorable judges working hard to keep the city safe! But then, what if, to some extent, what the respectable man had said was actually true? Were some officials honestly bending justice when hearing the weepier cries of criminals? What a scandalous idea! Nicolas almost felt detestable for even considering the possibility of such a thing! However, if it actually was true, then perhaps the boy needed to study to become a judge, so at least one courthouse would be pure!

Jules, however, as stated above, was solely focused on their current arrest. Inspector Bertrand was not speaking; he was simply standing motionless with his right hand casually picking at a button, a seemingly subconscious motion, but one that his students recognized as his stance for deep thinking. The older man was trying to find a way to deal with this troubling situation, but he in no way would allow himself to show any observers the tumultuous thoughts brewing within. Jules watched his teacher with rapt attention, waiting for an order. Many times it had been said that the boy's eagerness for a fight would eventually become his fatal flaw. He had a despairingly small amount of patience, and that was never helped him win approval from Monsieur Bertrand. Jules began tapping his fingers on his leg impatiently, a trick he'd learned to still his upper body when waiting grew agonizing.

"Sir," the boy finally said, after the wait had become too much. The inspector dropped his hand to his side and glanced at his pupil, raising an eyebrow. Not sure if that meant he was in trouble or not, Jules continued, "Sir, what was your plan for dealing with this wench?"

The man stared at the other three on the street for a long moment, during which Jules felt sure he'd receive a tremendous scolding, the humiliation of it greatly intensified by the presence of a convict. Instead, however, M. Bertrand emotionlessly (which was his version of contentment) replied with two simple words: "Follow me."

The boys heeded his orders immediately. Christine's sister did not resist, did not even protest, for she was smart enough to know that such things would do more harm than good. She hung her head in despair, trudging along as if on her death march. There was a surprisingly short amount of time before the group arrived at their destination. The girl looked up from the street, and the sight she gazed upon made her knees buckle. The group had descended into the richer part of the city, stopping in front of the inspector's large house while he unlocked the gate, and again for him to reseal it. Terror gripped the young woman. Inspector Bertrand was quite infamous for his quick, unfair judgments and unorthodox procedures; surely, whatever plan he was hatching was going to be hideous.

The house itself was not—hideous, that is. Its sweeping porch wasn't particularly easy to see in the gathering dusk, but the parlor, once Nicolas lit the lamps, was gorgeous. The inspector, part of the bourgeois, the upper middle class, should not have been able to afford such splendid lodgings—especially considering the enormity of the rest of the house compared to this one little room, since the rest of the building would probably be a fine equal in wealth.

Christine's sister was not terribly surprised. In fact, she did not doubt that the official even had electric lights in a few rooms. She had heard many rumors about this inspector, and how he had come into his wealth. Speculators claimed he stole from tax collectors and charity donations, he sold addictive substances on the side, his sister was an acclaimed courtesan with no real need for her own money, he was the secret and illegitimate runaway heir to the fortune of Constantine I, and he had even sold his own soul to Lucifer himself. None of these accusations would have surprised the girl being thrust into his parlor one bit.

All of the men sat down upon regal, uncomfortable-looking furniture. The sister-in-law of Monsieur Thenadier remained standing when she lacked instruction to do otherwise. The intent, angry gazes made her feel like the suspect in a murder trial brought forth before the judges pronounced her guilty. There was a long pause.

"Well," said M. Bertrand calmly. "We seem to have quite the unfortunate predicament here." _An extreme understatement_, thought the girl. "We cannot simply let you roam the streets unpunished after what you've done. Unfortunately, however, I'm afraid that the trouble of convicting you without a report from the victim would not be entirely worth the reward."

He paused, as if letting that statement sink in. The lone standing person in the room remained poised and perfectly stoic, refusing to let her fear and discomfort show. Jules, quickly growing bored in the sober silence, felt the need to start a conversation.

"Sir, what is your plan?" asked he.

The more experienced policeman gave the boy a look of mixed disgust and contempt, just half hidden by the calm air he used for work-related affairs. He stated with only a minor touch of annoyance in his voice, though he was fighting to conceal a great deal of it, "My plan, boy, is to lock her in the cellar until we have a well thought-out course of action planned that will ensure a quick and foolproof arrest. Since you are far too impatient to keep watch over a criminal, however, I am entrusting the job of keeping her from running away to Nicolas."

Jules hung his head in shame. Nicolas, though sorry for his friend's rotten luck, was eager for the job. When Inspector Bertrand had his apprentices do grunt work, it was not a form of punishment or his own laziness coming out; such scenarios were simply opportunities to prove themselves worthy of a promotion or to gain more respect from their teacher. Being blatantly refused the possibility of a job like this most likely meant a week of scrubbing toilets, not to mention lost approval from the person who could make or break their future careers.

"Yes, sir," Nicolas said dutifully. He quickly stood up and established a firm grip on the girl's arm. Monsieur Bertrand stood and handed his apprentice a key. At the boy's inquiring look, the inspector felt a need to explain.

"It locks and unlocks the door across from the wine cellar. Now get a move on. This one needs to be secured as soon as physically possible!"

Nicolas quickly pulled her down the halls, not bothering to turn the lights on as he went. During the past three years of his apprenticeship, the boy had learned to navigate fairly well. He paused only in the kitchen-grand and illustrious as the rest of the house, of course-to grab a candle for the trip down a flight of steep stairs into the cellar. The prisoner stumbled a few times, tripping over the frayed bottom of her skirts at the rapid pace at which she was being pulled along, but her escort would not let her fall. Although she was a convict, Nicolas was still a gentleman; he had been taught from an early age to treat all women with a gentle touch.

The candle cast more flickering shadows upon the walls than light in that basement, but it was all the pair needed. Two doors, one sturdy with a bar across it and the other with a lock in the handle that hung a few inches above the ground, sat in holes in the wall. One, Nicolas knew, led to the wine cellar and was always bolted shut unless the inspector was thirsty for something alcoholic-which, admittedly, happened rather often. The other, the one that was a bit high off the ground for a door, was a makeshift jail cell used for "emergencies." Nicolas had never before been allowed to come down to the cellar while the cell was in use, which proved yet again what an honor this job was, even if it probably wouldn't be very exciting.

Nicolas unlocked the door and, with his other hand, nudged the girl into the room. She did not resist, and so the boy had no trouble locking the door behind her. He sat down on the floor next to the door and leaned up against the wall. The gap under the door was much too small for a human being to slip under, but just the right size through which to pass a mug of lukewarm water or a loaf of bread. The guard at the door leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. The door was securely locked, and the prisoner hadn't shown any signs of wanting to escape anyway.

Suddenly, a soft, cautious voice broke his almost slumber with a start.

"Monsieur?"

Nicolas could have ignored her, but he had always found the opportunity to speak to a criminal fascinating, and now he took his chance to find out how one's mind worked.

"Yes, Mademoiselle . . . ?"

"My name is Genvieve Demarais. What is yours?"

"Why do you want to know?" retorted gruffly, his guard suddenly up against these questions.

The girl, Genvieve, hesitated for a moment in silence. Finally she said, her voice still hardly above a whisper, "I suppose I don't really have a reason. Still, I feel it would be nice to know the name of the man keeping watch over me tonight."

"It would be in your best interests to simply refer to me as, 'Inspector,' Mademoiselle Genvieve."

"I will," said Genvieve in that quiet song-like voice of hers. "Even so, I would greatly appreciate knowing your name, if you are allowed to tell me."

Nicolas sighed. He did not see any harm in answering, but he was careful to avoid including nothing more than the simplest facts; there was no reason to give away everything about himself to a total stranger.

"My name is Nicolas Javert."


End file.
